Closer to the Stars
by Jainie Starr
Summary: There is no gene for compassion. [SLASH!]


**MAV·ER·ICK GEN·ER·ATE ('mav-rik jen-ur-et) (proper noun)**: 

1.) A person with the Maverick Genetic complex. 

2.) A genetically engineered being possessed of 'perfect' cells and DNA structure, yet one that fails to reach its progenitors' expectations. Scientists debate whether this is due to poor conditioning of the child by its parents as it matures, or if it is the fault of the engineers. Predisposed to habitual drug and/or alcohol abuse, violence, aggression, anger-control dysfunction, despite their 'perfect' DNA. They are considered the orphaned children of the Genetic Revolution. Less than 1 out of every 100,000 viable engineered embryos is a Maverick Generate. Studies are currently being conducted to discover the cause for this curious affliction. 

**SEE ALSO: EMGENERATE, EMGEN, MAVERICK GENETIC COMPLEX, IN-VALID, VALID, DNA, GENETIC ENGINEERING, CONDITIONING, CLONING, HEATH, DR. ALFRED**

--from the American Medical Association Resource Book, 2038 

* * *

"You know, I wasn't drunk," Jerome offered nonchalantly. 

"What do you mean, you're not drunk?" Vincent muttered as he swung the other man's useless lower limbs up on to the bed for him and went about settling him in for the night. 

"When I walked in front of that car." 

"What car?" The words sent a vicious, inexplicable chill through Vincent and he glanced up -- Jerome gazed up at the ceiling dreamily, his head lolling back and forth on the pillow. 

"I stepped right out in front of it," he had a faraway look in his eyes that before, Vincent would have attributed to his intoxicated state, but that he now recognized as some species of melancholy nostalgia. "I'd never been more sober in my life." 

"Go to sleep," he replied brusquely. 

He didn't need to hear this; moreover, he didn't _want_ to hear this. What they had together was merely a business arrangement -- Vincent wanted to get into Gattaca, but was what modern society considered a lesser human being, because he wasn't engineered. Not the way Jerome Morrow, the man whose DNA and face and life he was borrowing, was. Jerome's failure was doubly humiliating -- if he had been an In-Valid, like Vincent, his failure would have been overlooked, perhaps even expected. But Jerome was a Valid -- a made man, a human being engineered by science to be everything his parents wanted him to be and more -- he was perfect. Or at least he was _supposed_ to be perfect. Although Science had endeavored to give Jerome all of the privileges that Nature denied Her creations, he frequently fell short of his promised perfection. 

It was only supposed to be a business agreement, nothing more, nothing less. With the aid of Jerome's superior genetic makeup, Vincent got a profitable position as a navigator at Gattaca -- 25% of his earnings going to the man that had arranged for his identity swap with Jerome, the other 75% to be split between Jerome and Vincent as they saw fit. 

A good portion of Vincent's money went toward paying the rent for the sprawling two-story condominium that he and Jerome shared, as well as keeping Jerome in vodka and smokes. For better or for worse, now, they had each other -- they were like a married couple -- Vincent would bring home the bacon, while Jerome sat at home and read his books. The rest of his time was spent in the small but well-equipped laboratory in the lower level of the condo that also served as his home. 

It was there that he prepared vials and sachets of blood, urine, nail clippings, hair and other microscopic fragments -- all of which could be discovered and tested by the crews at Gattaca. Vincent spent no less than an hour and a half crouched in the incinerator each morning, scouring away all of the loose skin and hair he could, so he wouldn't leave any of his imperfect self behind as he made his way through each day at the aeronautic institute. It was a painstaking chore, but a necessary one. If even a single eyelash or strand of Vincent's hair were to be discovered, his career and very life would be in jeopardy, not to mention Jerome's. Black-market ID swapping was illegal, punishable by weighty prison sentences, sometimes even termination. Rare were the cases when the judge didn't throw the book at an In-Valid that had sought to get above himself and his station in life. 

Vincent had only just recently received word that he was going up, just as he had always dreamed. Up to the mysterious, cloud-shrouded star called Titan VI for a whole year to study and document the strange star's atmosphere, origins and rotation. 

Jerome was just drunk and feeling maudlin, nothing more than that -- he'd sleep it off and then everything would be back to normal in the morning. Or so Vincent found himself hoping. 

"Couldn't even get that right, could I?" Jerome chuckled weakly. He grabbed the front of Vincent's suit jacket and pulled him down so that they were almost nose to nose. "If at first you don't succeed," he began as though he were whispering sweet nonsense to a lover, "try, try again." 

"Go to _sleep_," Vincent said, more firmly this time, uncurling the drunken man's fingers from the front of his jacket and returning his hand to its place at his side, only to have Jerome reach up and wrench him forward once more. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Vincent knew that this man had probably had all of the violence bred out of him long before he was even born and that provided Vincent with a modicum of relief. But, then again, Jerome was a genetic mutation -- commonly referred to as a Maverick Generate or EmGen for short -- and as such was considered unpredictable and volatile. He was a drunk and a chain-smoker, although the genes that predisposed him to both addictions had apparently been eradicated at his conception, as any addiction -- save the addiction to succeed at any and all costs -- was looked upon as a weakness. So who was to say for sure that the gene for violence had not also managed to squeak its way into Jerome's genetic lattice, as his penchants for booze and cigarettes had? 

Imperfection left the doors wide open for any and all of the seven deadly sins to sneak in, if they so chose. Jerome already had several of them down to an exact science in and of themselves -- sloth, gluttony, lust, anger, all the best and easiest ones -- only a handful more to go before he was well and truly damned. 

"I'm proud of you, Vincent," he said softly. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and released the lapel of the other man's suit. Well, we can add pride to the list, now, Vincent thought with a mental snort. 

"You must be drunk to call me Vincent," he let a hint of humor creep into his reproving tones. 

A couple of months into the identity swapping procedure, the two men had agreed that Vincent would take Jerome's name as his own, while Jerome insisted on being called by his middle name, Eugene. It would cause less confusion for the two of them and it would help Vincent become accustomed to being addressed by the moniker of his sponsor into the world of genetically manufactured excellence. 

"You know what I miss, Vincent?" The other man carried on obliviously, his tones dulcet and dreamy, quite unlike the low, bitter ones to which Vincent had long since become accustomed. 

"What?" he asked as he untied and removed Jerome's patent black Oxfords and arranged them neatly side-by-side on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

"I miss the water." 

"What do you mean?" He took a seat on the bed next to Jerome and gently began to loosen his tie. 

"I miss going in the water... and feeling it on my legs..." Jerome gestured at the lower, immobile half of his body vaguely. Before his accident -- or, Vincent thought, should it be considered more of an _attempt_, now, than an accident? -- Jerome had been a diving star. "It was so nice and cool, Vincent." A bright, blissful smile. "I took it for granted... I should have enjoyed it while I had the chance." The smile melted away and pure misery elbowed into its place. Vincent found himself thinking that a man as beautiful as Jerome should never have cause to look so defeated, but quickly shoved the thought aside. "But I didn't... and now I never will again." 

"You don't know that for sure," he tutted as he unbuttoned Jerome's dress shirt. "There are scientists that are making progress with paraplegics all the time, now." 

"I can do that!" Jerome blustered grumpily as he tried to bat Vincent's hands out of the way. 

"No, let me. So, what else do you miss?" 

"What do I miss? Ohh, lots of things." A hand floated through the air in an all-encompassing gesture. 

"Like? What?" 

"Oh, why am I even bothering to tell you this? You don't care. It's silly, anyway." 

"I do care," Vincent protested. "And who cares if it's silly? Silly things are usually the best ones." He smiled. 

"I miss... stubbing my toe on furniture," Jerome grinned. The suddenness of Vincent's bark of laughter surprised them both and that wholly unexpected reaction encouraged Jerome. "I miss tripping over things in the dark like I used to when I'd get up to raid the fridge in the middle of the night. I miss..." his grin faded considerably, belying with the turmoil roiling inside him, "making love." 

"That's not silly at all," Vincent replied evenly as he pulled the other man into his arms to slip off his suit jacket, dress shirt and undershirt. He laid Jerome gently back down onto the bed and folded each of the garments neatly, under Jerome's watchful stare (he was a hopeless neatnik). "But ... what about all the women that come here?" He asked, referring to the steady string of prostitutes that visited Jerome every other week or so. 

Vincent knew they were prostitutes because he had to see to it that they received payment for their services. What services they performed, exactly, was the question Vincent was endeavoring to learn the answer to. Granted, he didn't pay the women himself -- didn't hand them the money, personally -- but he gave Jerome money when he needed it -- and he almost always needed it. 

"I mean -- why? Why do they come here if you can't --?" Oh, but he was awful at this sort of thing. "What do you do with them, if... if -- you can't make love to them?" 

"They..." Jerome reached down, as if to dig into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes, but then remembered that Vincent had undressed him and his cigarettes were probably still tucked inside the pocket of his suit jacket. He sighed inaudibly and folded both of his hands over his chest, lacing his fingers together. Jerome couldn't look Vincent in the eye; instead he fidgeted -- he glanced down at his hands, twiddled his thumbs, examined each of his fingers closely. "They..." the words were spoken so softly Vincent could barely make them out. 

"I'm sorry, what?" 

"They hold me," he repeated, more loudly than was necessary, and winced at the sound of his own voice as much as the words that made up the embarrassing admission. "I've been stuck in this chair... for nearly seven years, now. Can you even imagine what it's like? At my age? I'm twenty-eight years old, now -- I was twenty-_one_ when I had my 'accident.' Can you imagine that? Being twenty-one years old, overrun with male hormones and desperate to have sex with anything that moves and _not being able to_?" 

"Why did you do it? I mean, why --" 

"I was trying to save my parents the trouble," Jerome replied, tone laden with familiar rancor. "I was an embarrassment, a failure; wasted money, wasted time, wasted effort. I thought it would be best if I just took matters into my own hands. The amazing self-destructing son: kills himself if he's not living up to his parents' expectations. How's that for a pitch?" He sniggered. 

"That's not funny," Vincent said, deadpan. 

"No? Well, I'm sorry I can't be a more cheerful drunk for you, Vincent," he sounded anything but sorry. Jerome glanced up and his gaze locked with Vincent's. "I'm -- I am sorry," he said again, more softly this time, and looked away. Vincent could tell that this time he truly meant it. "Christ, I'm sorry... why am I telling you all of this, anyway? It's late and you've got a physical tomorrow; you need your rest." A small, wan smile as he reached down and began unbuckling his belt with limp, rubbery fingers. "I can finish undressing, myself." 

"No, I'll -- I can do it," Vincent interceded. "Almost done, anyway." He looked up and caught Jerome's consenting nod before undoing the belt buckle and slipping it free from the waistband of the other man's trousers. He coiled it up carefully and placed it on top of the growing pile of clothes. 

As Vincent reached up to unbutton the waistband of Jerome's slacks, he hesitated. Another glance at Jerome, who was lying back against the pillows, completely still, eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep. With impersonal, practiced movements, Vincent unzipped Jerome's trousers and gently tugged them off, shifting Jerome's inert form as needed to facilitate the removal of the garment. As he did this -- what had become something of a nightly ritual with the two of them -- Vincent silently mulled a question over and over in his mind. He attempted to speak it, open his mouth and ask Jerome, but somehow, he couldn't find the nerve to say the actual words. 

"That's why..." Jerome said all of a sudden, startling Vincent. This comment seemed to mean something and nothing, all at the same time. 

"What's why?" 

"That's why I hire the prostitutes," he replied, shooting Vincent an impatient glare. He settled his head back down onto the pillow and closed his eyes once again. "Before you came, I'd been alone for so long... I'd forgotten what it was like to be touched by someone, by anyone. And I'm not just talking about being touched out of pity, a hand on your shoulder and an 'I'm so sorry this happened to you, Jerome'... I mean, _real_ touches. Lovers' touches. So that's why I hire the prostitutes. They don't care what they have to do, so long as they get paid for it... they'll even lie to you; if you ask them to, if you pay them enough." 

"Lie?" Vincent took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Jerome once again, brows furrowed with concern. 

"They'll tell you anything you want to hear... and even though you know it's bullshit, even though you know they're only saying it because you're paying them to say it, it doesn't matter, because still, they're _saying_ it. And you can close your eyes and pretend that it's that one person you care about most, the person of your dreams, the one person you can't ever have, the one person that might not even exist in real life." When Jerome opened his eyes, Vincent was surprised to see tears gleaming there. A single silvery tear crept out of the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek, leaving a dark spot of wetness on the pillowcase. "You take what you can get, even if it's a lie... because that's all you can get." 

"That's not true," somewhere, amidst the shock caused by Jerome's confidences and the realization of just how genuinely lonely the man was, Vincent found the breath to speak. 

"Isn't it?" Jerome wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, the bitterness creeping back into his tone like ice water trickling into the cracks of a stone. 

"No." With considerable effort, he swallowed and met Jerome's gaze. "You have me, now." 

"Wh -- what did you say?" The other man lifted his head up from the pillow, bleary, disbelieving eyes training on him as steadily as they could manage. 

"You have me," he repeated himself, the very picture of outward calm and patience, meanwhile his heart felt as if it was on the verge of exploding. "You don't -- you don't have to..." Vincent trailed off lamely, mistaking Jerome's impassive expression for one of shock -- or, even worse, disgust. "Just -- forget it. Forget I said anything. Just forget tonight ever even happened." He sighed, gathered up Jerome's clothes in his arms, attempting to beat a hasty, albeit awkward, retreat. 

"No, wait," Jerome's hand shot up and caught him by the wrist, stilling him. "Vincent, I'm sorry." 

"Would you stop saying that?! Jesus Christ!" he shouted, attempting to pull his hand from Jerome's grip. "Let me go. Let go!" 

"No! Not until you tell me." For once, it was Jerome that was the calm and compassionate one. "Please, tell me... what were you going to say?" As best he could, he rolled over, gently clasping Vincent's wrist and forearm with both hands. He gave his arm a slight tug, urging him to retake his seat on the bed. "Please?" Vincent released another deep, weary sigh and dropped back down onto the edge of the bed next to Jerome, the other man's clothes lying in his lap. 

"I was just going to say..." he began hesitantly, after an encouraging nod from Jerome, "you don't need to see prostitutes anymore. I mean -- I could... if you wanted me to, I mean -- I ..." again, his words ground to a painful halt, leaving strained silence between the two of them. 

"Go on," Jerome prompted softly. 

"We've been living together for nearly five years, now. I just thought that -- I mean, you're just so..." Vincent glanced down at the clothes in his lap, shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "For a long time, I never really knew you. It was as if you were afraid to let me get too close. But then I did." He licked his parched lips, eyes still fixed on Jerome's belt buckle which gleamed in the dimmed bedroom light. "Somehow, I did." 

"And...?" 

"And when I finally did get close to you, I saw ... how you really are. How lonely and sad you are." Vincent risked an upward glance and his gaze collided with Jerome's: quiet and calm, if not slightly glazed over from all of the alcohol he'd imbibed earlier in the evening; attentive, but still with a trace of that same confounded melancholy. 

It was then that Vincent noticed that Jerome had not yet released his hand and was in fact cradling it in both of his. In turn, Jerome also looked down at their joined hands -- Vincent's short, blunt, work-roughened fingers mingling with his own lithe, graceful, smooth ones -- and felt an electrifying surge of ... something. 

"Keep going, Vincent," he pleaded, giving the man's fingers a light squeeze. 

"We've been everything to each other, these past few years, we _share_ everything -- our lives, our problems, all our thoughts and feelings, no matter how ugly or nasty they are -- we're always here for each other, if we need something. So why can't we be this for each other? Why can't we share this, too?" Vincent carefully laced their fingers together. "You need something, and I think I know what that is. So, can I -- could I help you?" 

Jerome's hand slipped out of his grasp and Vincent felt his heart sink while the other man laid back, brows drawn together thoughtfully. His eyes drifted down, took in his inert extremities and then made their way back up to Vincent's face. He took a deep breath and then slowly released it, the furrow of consternation gradually smoothing itself from his forehead. 

"Thank you," he said at last, a small smile curling up one corner of his generous mouth. Vincent's heart shot straight up from his chest, out his throat and into the stratosphere and his smile was brighter, happier than any Jerome had ever seen on the other man's face before. 

Soon, though, the elation was replaced once again with hesitance and uneasiness. Vincent drew a deep breath in through his nose and stood, raising a staying hand as Jerome opened his mouth to speak, mistakenly assuming that he was standing up to leave. 

He placed Jerome's clothes on the dresser sitting against the wall, and then returned to the bedside, where the other man looked on with undisguised curiosity. Vincent hooked a finger into the knot in his tie, loosened and removed it with shaky hands, letting it drop carelessly to the floor. He knew that Jerome loathed the carelessness he showed his own clothing and the general distaste Jerome had for the dozy manner with which he saw to the tending of their living space. 

The lower floor which Jerome inhabited was spartan but elegantly appointed and, of course, spotless, while Vincent's room on the upper floor was a complete catastrophe: a veritable cyclone of astronavigation charts, books, clothes, telescopes and other personal belongings. 

But at this moment, none of that mattered -- not the clothes, not the condo or the money, not even Gattaca or the mission to Titan. 

Vincent undressed deliberately, revealing inch after inch of his lightly tanned skin as Jerome looked on, only just barely concealing his anxiety and delight. Shoes and socks first, then suit jacket and tie, dress shirt, undershirt and slacks last. Clad only in his boxer shorts, Vincent padded around the side of the bed -- Jerome's eyes steadily following his every move -- and took a seat on the edge once again, folding his hands in his lap. Even though he knew Jerome wanted this, even though he knew it had been his idea, for some reason, he felt like the biggest fool on the planet. 

"Vincent." A single word, his own name; nothing more than a whisper, a soft, breathy sigh -- but to hear his name spoken with that refined accent, in that warm, beguiling tone... he was convinced that no sound could ever be any sweeter than that. Jerome held out his hand, beckoning him, face placid, eyes aglow. 

He took another deep breath and slid his right hand into Jerome's, allowed him to pull him closer, up onto the bed. He laid down beside the other man on his side, his gaze never once wavering from Jerome's. Vincent's hand strayed up and cupped Jerome's cheek, smoothing his thumb over the finely sculpted cheekbone; Jerome leaned into the touch, eyelids drifting closed, and his breath catching stubbornly in his throat. 

A small whimper escaped his lips involuntarily as Vincent's lips brushed against his forehead and temple -- light, reverent kisses. As he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of Vincent's own eyes gazing into his and they traded smiles. Vincent leaned in slowly, giving Jerome every opportunity to bring things to a halt, but that was the last thing Jerome wanted. He slipped a hand up and cupped the back of Vincent's neck and gently drew his head down. Their lips met once -- just the barest, chaste brushing -- then again, with a bit more intensity. 

In the past few moments, very few words had been spoken -- but as they parted, they unwittingly began finishing each others' sentences. 

"Wow. That was so..." 

"I didn't know it could be like that." 

"Your lips are -- they're just so -- wow." 

"You said that already," Jerome chuckled softly, combing his fingers through Vincent's hair. He lifted his head from the pillow, silently entreating for another kiss and the other man didn't refuse. 

Their lips met again and even as Vincent's lips parted to deepen their kiss, he could feel Jerome's lips parting under his -- sublime synchronicity. Their tongues explored meekly, at first, tips just touching -- and as they became more bold, carefully twining together, rasping against each other gently. Vincent's fingertips skated over every inch of skin he could reach -- not teasing so much as studying with his careful touches. 

Jerome's arms slid around Vincent, pulling him closer still; he pressed a kiss to his forehead and cheek before easing his head into the crook of his shoulder. 

"It's so strange," he said softly as his fingers stroked Vincent's hair. 

"What is?" 

"Oh, nothing. It's just... I keep forgetting that you and I are the same height, now," a thin ribbon of humor dancing in his words and he could feel Jerome's soft lips draw up into a smile against his temple. "Strange... but it feels nice. Very, _very_ nice," the last words were a deep, hushed whisper that sent an altogether pleasant chill down Vincent's spine. 

"Yeah?" It was Vincent's turn to smile. 

"Mmm-hmmm," was his companion's languidly hummed response. 

"I wish... I wish there was more I could do for --" Jerome's index finger pressed against Vincent's lips, effectively silencing him. 

"Shhh. It's alright. This is more than enough for me..." The words 'for now' went unspoken, but the two men heard them, knew they were there, all the same. Jerome sounded genuinely content and... happy? There was no way that Vincent could be sure, because he'd never seen Jerome truly _happy_ before... 

But in his heart of hearts, Vincent hoped that this was it. 

The End


End file.
